Spring break at the mall. Instead of Caribbean blue waters, a sea of St. Patrick's green flowed through the food court as Hannah chattered a stream of consciousness. While we shared Chick-fil-A on formica that touted Route 66, a blonde tween sat at the next table with her twisty, pinned-up ponytail pointing at us. Soon the ponytail turned until two cerulean eyes aimed at my misshapen hands.
Keeping my focus on Hannah, I allowed ample time for our neighbor's adolescent curiosity. After a minute--maybe two--I considered the little blue lasers intrusive and turned to stare directly at them. It took a full five seconds before the eyes grew wide, I heard the tiniest gasp and the ponytail whipped itself back around. Unaware, Hannah chattered throughout the entire incident, so I was confident I had made my point and thankful the unwanted attention was aimed at me and not Hannah.
I was wrong.
Less then five minutes later the ponytail made a 270 degree turn, meaning the tween had cranked herself around until her body faced mine so that the eyes focused on Hannah. I waited to see what would happen. The blue eyes stared. Hannah chattered. I waited some more.
Hannah's speech slowed and I watched recognition register on her face until she became silent. She turned to the eyes and said, "Hi."
The ponytail swirled around to reply with silence.
A few minutes later the scene repeated: 270 degree turn, invasive eyes, Hannah's slow recognition, followed by her friendly hi and the stupidly silent ponytail.
This time Hannah looked at me and said, "That's weird."
I replied loudly, "She must just want to look and not talk."
Thankfully ponytail and her four-person family ate quickly and soon parted, two walking behind me and two behind Hannah. As the younger brother squeezed behind Hannah, he gawked at her. Innocently, Hannah looked back at him and said (for the third time now), "Hi."
No response.
After they were gone Hannah said, "He was creepy."
"Why?" I asked.
"He just looked at me."
I shrugged and changed the subject. Hannah easily returned to her steady stream of talk, but my internal dialogue rose above her voice, each thought a wave crashing: "Had Hannah's peers started to perceive her as different?" Crash. "Wait. Did her schoolmates treat her differently?" Crash. "Had Hannah finally reached the age where her classmates were mean?" Crash. "Ponytail mean?"
This was ridiculous.
I silenced the dialogue inside me and instead asked Hannah, "So, who is your best friend at school?" Her eyes clouded as I watched her consider this. I couldn't tell if she was imagining mistreatment or trying to think of a single name. Finally she answered with her own perfect perspective:
"Everyone."
Tuesday, March 17, 2015
Wednesday, February 15, 2012
The Keyhole
For my lifelong blog reader(s)--smirk-- : I have decided to write a book about life with a Dandy-Walker child. Originally I thought this would be my first chapter, but now I'm considering making it a prologue. Please offer any constructive criticism, either in the comments or in a personal e-mail: solomongirls at yahoo dot com
That cold December Kansas morning I noticed it for the first time in my newborn’s eye: a keyhole where a perfect pupil should have been. Just a few weeks earlier I had made prep-for-the-new-baby lists, Thanksgiving travel lists, Christmas shopping lists, pack-for-the-hospital lists, remember-for-my-older-daughters’-school lists. Lists, lists, lists. My third child was due in late December and I knew that if I wrote everything down, I would somehow have control. However, control is an imaginary friend who disappears when real life arrives.
Few of those lists were completed because Hannah Savannah, baby number three, surprised us by arriving several weeks early, November 30, 2002, while we were in Wichita celebrating Thanksgiving. Other than her unexpected early arrival in an unfamiliar hospital with an unknown doctor, her birth went fairly smoothly and her first week of life was typical: the smell of baby shampoo, the softness of talcum powder, extra laundry, diapers and new schedules. As usual, my mom visited, bringing with her the white wicker bassinet in which she, her sisters, her children and each of her grandchildren had slept during their first weeks of life. Now it was Hannah’s turn.
All three of my daughters weighed between five and six pounds at birth, but Hannah was such a short, tiny bundle that my mom gently rested her in my eight-cup measuring cup, holding her in place while I took a picture. Because both Carl and I come from short-statured families with several immediate family members falling short of the five-foot mark, including both of our grandmothers, Hannah’s shortness didn’t seem anomalous, just a little quirky and useful for a fun photo op. We would save these pictures for future boyfriends.
Once mom filled our freezer with food, took an excess of photos, caught up the laundry and ensured that her daughter was settled into the new routines and responsibilities of caring for her newest granddaughter, she packed up her little Honda Civic. I waved goodbye until I could no longer see her, then settled into my stuffed green rocking chair, simultaneously exhausted and energized, to rock our newest family member.
Katie and Hailey were in school and Carl was at work, so I took the opportunity to rock and gaze into Hannah’s blue eyes, a blue that wouldn’t fade as it does for so many other children, a blue that surrounded…a keyhole. Was I imagining it? She was born three weeks early; did her eye simply need to finish developing? Maybe I was just a tired mom with an overactive imagination stimulated by sleep deprivation. I decided to ignore it until tomorrow, confident that sleep would bring about better mental and visual clarity. After all, my normal, perfect baby could be no less than that.
Little did I know that the tiny keyhole staring back at me from my child’s eyes, the windows to her baby soul, would portend a lifelong search for keys, keys to Hannah Savannah.
That cold December Kansas morning I noticed it for the first time in my newborn’s eye: a keyhole where a perfect pupil should have been. Just a few weeks earlier I had made prep-for-the-new-baby lists, Thanksgiving travel lists, Christmas shopping lists, pack-for-the-hospital lists, remember-for-my-older-daughters’-school lists. Lists, lists, lists. My third child was due in late December and I knew that if I wrote everything down, I would somehow have control. However, control is an imaginary friend who disappears when real life arrives.
Few of those lists were completed because Hannah Savannah, baby number three, surprised us by arriving several weeks early, November 30, 2002, while we were in Wichita celebrating Thanksgiving. Other than her unexpected early arrival in an unfamiliar hospital with an unknown doctor, her birth went fairly smoothly and her first week of life was typical: the smell of baby shampoo, the softness of talcum powder, extra laundry, diapers and new schedules. As usual, my mom visited, bringing with her the white wicker bassinet in which she, her sisters, her children and each of her grandchildren had slept during their first weeks of life. Now it was Hannah’s turn.
All three of my daughters weighed between five and six pounds at birth, but Hannah was such a short, tiny bundle that my mom gently rested her in my eight-cup measuring cup, holding her in place while I took a picture. Because both Carl and I come from short-statured families with several immediate family members falling short of the five-foot mark, including both of our grandmothers, Hannah’s shortness didn’t seem anomalous, just a little quirky and useful for a fun photo op. We would save these pictures for future boyfriends.
Once mom filled our freezer with food, took an excess of photos, caught up the laundry and ensured that her daughter was settled into the new routines and responsibilities of caring for her newest granddaughter, she packed up her little Honda Civic. I waved goodbye until I could no longer see her, then settled into my stuffed green rocking chair, simultaneously exhausted and energized, to rock our newest family member.
Katie and Hailey were in school and Carl was at work, so I took the opportunity to rock and gaze into Hannah’s blue eyes, a blue that wouldn’t fade as it does for so many other children, a blue that surrounded…a keyhole. Was I imagining it? She was born three weeks early; did her eye simply need to finish developing? Maybe I was just a tired mom with an overactive imagination stimulated by sleep deprivation. I decided to ignore it until tomorrow, confident that sleep would bring about better mental and visual clarity. After all, my normal, perfect baby could be no less than that.
Little did I know that the tiny keyhole staring back at me from my child’s eyes, the windows to her baby soul, would portend a lifelong search for keys, keys to Hannah Savannah.
Wednesday, February 23, 2011
Balancing Act
As Hannah and I sat in the car after returning home from school, she asked, "Can I use your computer when we get inside?"
"No, not today."
"Why?" she asked.
"Because I'm using it to balance my checkbook."
Immediately she put both hands and one foot in the air (like the original Karate Kid, only remaining seated) and said, "I can balance!"
Monday, January 10, 2011
The Making of One Hundred Snowmen
This morning we awoke to the first snow of winter, a light dusting on the ground with the promise of more to come. I need to get back into the habit of using my camera.
From the minute Hannah opened the front door and saw the snow, she didn't stop jabbering about making a snowman. Her entire school prep time was peppered with her description of the snowman making process and declarations of, "When I get home I'm going to put on my coat and go outside and build a snowman."
The minute I picked her up from school, she picked up right where she left off. It sounded something like this:
"When I get home I'm going to put on my boots and coat and go outside and build a snowman and I need two blueberries for its eyes but don't worry mom I'll save you some blueberries for smoothies in the morning." Breathe. "And a carrot for its nose and sticks for its arms and I'll wear my blue boots the ones with the orange inside." Momentary thought-gathering pause. Very momentary. Spreading her arms wide, she resumed her chattering, "I'm going to make a hundred snowmen. OK, Mom?"
"Hmm? Sure. Wow. A hundred, huh?" I asked, noticing the patchiness of the snow and the blades of grass sticking through it in every yard.
Hannah talked the entire drive home, and I'm not exaggerating. It's hard to believe there was once a day when we wondered if she would ever be able to speak.
The minute we arrived home, Hannah did her jobs (put away her backpack, unload her lunch box and put her shoes in the closet), dressed warmly and went outside for The Making of One Hundred Snowmen. I began putting things away in the kitchen.
Less than five minutes later Hannah barrelled through the front door, breathing heavily, and said, "I love the snow. I'm done!"
From the minute Hannah opened the front door and saw the snow, she didn't stop jabbering about making a snowman. Her entire school prep time was peppered with her description of the snowman making process and declarations of, "When I get home I'm going to put on my coat and go outside and build a snowman."
The minute I picked her up from school, she picked up right where she left off. It sounded something like this:
"When I get home I'm going to put on my boots and coat and go outside and build a snowman and I need two blueberries for its eyes but don't worry mom I'll save you some blueberries for smoothies in the morning." Breathe. "And a carrot for its nose and sticks for its arms and I'll wear my blue boots the ones with the orange inside." Momentary thought-gathering pause. Very momentary. Spreading her arms wide, she resumed her chattering, "I'm going to make a hundred snowmen. OK, Mom?"
"Hmm? Sure. Wow. A hundred, huh?" I asked, noticing the patchiness of the snow and the blades of grass sticking through it in every yard.
Hannah talked the entire drive home, and I'm not exaggerating. It's hard to believe there was once a day when we wondered if she would ever be able to speak.
The minute we arrived home, Hannah did her jobs (put away her backpack, unload her lunch box and put her shoes in the closet), dressed warmly and went outside for The Making of One Hundred Snowmen. I began putting things away in the kitchen.
Less than five minutes later Hannah barrelled through the front door, breathing heavily, and said, "I love the snow. I'm done!"
Saturday, January 8, 2011
The BEST Clam Chowder
This cold Saturday morning I'm still sitting in my jammies, drinking burnt coffee that Carl brewed two hours before I awoke. I'm drinking water from a dirty glass because we forgot to run the dishwasher before bed last night. Some things never change. While the sun shines on me through grungy windows and between the branches of my still-standing Christmas tree, I'm trying to make friends with my blog again. I'm not sure how. Do I try to fill in the blanks between my last post (May 18 of last year!)? Do I upload a bunch of photos? Do I publish a well-written post, or just post something?
I'll ramble on and see what develops...
While some things haven't changed, others have, like my new hip. Wait, "changed" is inadequate. Let's try: Transformed. Revolutionized. Those are much better.
For example, the other day I decided to make a double batch of clam chowder only to realize Hannah had peeled the last of my potatoes down to brown blobs and left them to soften on the kitchen chair. Prior to May 18, this lack of potatoes would have resulted in a series of questions: Did I have enough energy to bundle up, ride my power chair to the garage and drive to the store? Once there, would my hip allow me to hobble to the back, heft a bag of potatoes into a cart and push it the checkout? After returning home I could use my power chair to return to the kitchen with the bag of potatoes, but would I have any energy remaining to actually prepare the chowder? I could walk only with the aid of a cane, so every movement through the kitchen would have to be done one-handed or with the assistance of my children, effectively doubling the time required to complete tasks with two hands. The fatigue caused by arthritis was (and still is) a constant, unwelcome companion who not only followed me around, but often demanded a piggy-back ride. The hip pain added to that fatigue had caused every-day decisions to become monumental.
Like I said, that was pre-May 18. I was making clam chowder post-May 18. I walked (without a cane, I might add) to the garage and got in the car. Once I arrived at the store, I hurried (yes, hurried) to the back and grabbed a 10-pound bag of potatoes. Up to this point, my mind had remained in the kitchen, ordering the next steps required to get supper to the table on time, knowing it could be done, but only if done efficiently. However, the substance of the full ten pounds, once in my arms, pulled my mind back from the kitchen to the grocery store. I didn't have a cart. I hadn't thought about grabbing the largest bag of potatoes, I had just done it. My mind wasn't worrying about whether or not I could complete the chowder, it was planning the steps to do it, steps that would not be slowed by a cane.
I wish I could describe, without sounding sappy, the joy and gratitude that filled me.
It's one thing to experience joy and gratitude when given something, a real something, like a child. The wonder and awe are overwhelming; you don't even know you have the capacity for the emotions that come with something so new and beautiful.
Having something equally real, like your health, then having it taken away slowly, incrementally and constantly causes a never ending cycle through the grief process: denial, anger, bargaining, depression, acceptance. After twenty-plus years with arthritis, I had absorbed this cycle into my life so fully that I thought it was "normal."
Suddenly, with one move, my "normal" had changed. Having so much grief removed instantaneously (well, almost instantaneously--there was a recovery process) left a vacuum that could only be filled with an enormous gratitude and joy. Something I had lost so long ago that I had forgotten it like you slowly forget the facial features of a lost loved one had been returned to me. It was a gift I didn't even know I could be given, and I had received it.
The clam chowder I made that evening was the best batch of clam chowder ever. I made it with two hands and with energy left to spare since it hadn't all been given to pain.
And I made it with gratitude, which adds flavor to everything.
I'll ramble on and see what develops...
While some things haven't changed, others have, like my new hip. Wait, "changed" is inadequate. Let's try: Transformed. Revolutionized. Those are much better.
For example, the other day I decided to make a double batch of clam chowder only to realize Hannah had peeled the last of my potatoes down to brown blobs and left them to soften on the kitchen chair. Prior to May 18, this lack of potatoes would have resulted in a series of questions: Did I have enough energy to bundle up, ride my power chair to the garage and drive to the store? Once there, would my hip allow me to hobble to the back, heft a bag of potatoes into a cart and push it the checkout? After returning home I could use my power chair to return to the kitchen with the bag of potatoes, but would I have any energy remaining to actually prepare the chowder? I could walk only with the aid of a cane, so every movement through the kitchen would have to be done one-handed or with the assistance of my children, effectively doubling the time required to complete tasks with two hands. The fatigue caused by arthritis was (and still is) a constant, unwelcome companion who not only followed me around, but often demanded a piggy-back ride. The hip pain added to that fatigue had caused every-day decisions to become monumental.
Like I said, that was pre-May 18. I was making clam chowder post-May 18. I walked (without a cane, I might add) to the garage and got in the car. Once I arrived at the store, I hurried (yes, hurried) to the back and grabbed a 10-pound bag of potatoes. Up to this point, my mind had remained in the kitchen, ordering the next steps required to get supper to the table on time, knowing it could be done, but only if done efficiently. However, the substance of the full ten pounds, once in my arms, pulled my mind back from the kitchen to the grocery store. I didn't have a cart. I hadn't thought about grabbing the largest bag of potatoes, I had just done it. My mind wasn't worrying about whether or not I could complete the chowder, it was planning the steps to do it, steps that would not be slowed by a cane.
I wish I could describe, without sounding sappy, the joy and gratitude that filled me.
It's one thing to experience joy and gratitude when given something, a real something, like a child. The wonder and awe are overwhelming; you don't even know you have the capacity for the emotions that come with something so new and beautiful.
Having something equally real, like your health, then having it taken away slowly, incrementally and constantly causes a never ending cycle through the grief process: denial, anger, bargaining, depression, acceptance. After twenty-plus years with arthritis, I had absorbed this cycle into my life so fully that I thought it was "normal."
Suddenly, with one move, my "normal" had changed. Having so much grief removed instantaneously (well, almost instantaneously--there was a recovery process) left a vacuum that could only be filled with an enormous gratitude and joy. Something I had lost so long ago that I had forgotten it like you slowly forget the facial features of a lost loved one had been returned to me. It was a gift I didn't even know I could be given, and I had received it.
The clam chowder I made that evening was the best batch of clam chowder ever. I made it with two hands and with energy left to spare since it hadn't all been given to pain.
And I made it with gratitude, which adds flavor to everything.
Tuesday, May 18, 2010
A New First
I've finished a new first in my life: my first major surgery. Last Wednesday, May 12, my surgeon replaced my nonexistent left hip with a fancy titanium replica. I kept busy busy busy in the month prior to my surgery to avoid thinking about the fact that he would be slicing through my thigh muscles, sawing off my bone, screwing in the prosthesis and sewing me back up again. Actually, the fact that they were going to poke my spine with a needle prior to surgery bothered me more; however, they had assured me that I could receive anti-anxiety medication--not in the parking lot, but shortly thereafter. I took them up on that.
Everything has gone more smoothly than I could have ever planned or imagined. I always thought I had great friends and family, but now I know without a doubt. Carl's sister, Mary, arranged for all of his other sisters to provide casseroles, then insisted that she come and stay with Carl and the girls while I was in the hospital. I had planned to have the girls ride the bus home and wing it until their dad returned from work. Mary's plan was much better.
Mom stayed with us Saturday and Sunday. While she was here, she weeded my flower beds, sprinkled them with Preen and planted impatiens.
I have had an ongoing debate/discussion with the same Jehovah's Witness for several years now. Would you believe they brought my family supper and a rose bush?
My fellow Sunday School teachers also provided me with a yummy spaghetti dinner and great conversation.
I'm still eating the candy bouquet given to me by my friend & librarian (and fellow library board members).
I made arrangements to have Hannah ride the bus home from school this week, as they tend to frown on narcotic-high mommy drivers. Yesterday Hannah insisted to the bus driver that she was supposed to get off at her classmate, Sean's house, which she has done twice before, even though I had told her that very morning NOT to. I received a phone call from Sean's mom yesterday afternoon: "Do you know where Hannah is?" Of course, the answer to that question is no 85% of the time.
"Well, she's supposed to be on the bus coming home." Then it dawned on me. "Did she get off at your house?" Sure enough, she had. Natasha not only kept Hannah for the next couple of hours, she offered to do the same for the rest of this last week of school. Bliss.
I could go on and on. Carl and I have received many phone calls and offers of help. Katie and Hailey have been fantastic. Sheri brought over "Happy Hip Cake." Several people visited me in the hospital.
I am truly blessed.
Everything has gone more smoothly than I could have ever planned or imagined. I always thought I had great friends and family, but now I know without a doubt. Carl's sister, Mary, arranged for all of his other sisters to provide casseroles, then insisted that she come and stay with Carl and the girls while I was in the hospital. I had planned to have the girls ride the bus home and wing it until their dad returned from work. Mary's plan was much better.
Mom stayed with us Saturday and Sunday. While she was here, she weeded my flower beds, sprinkled them with Preen and planted impatiens.
I have had an ongoing debate/discussion with the same Jehovah's Witness for several years now. Would you believe they brought my family supper and a rose bush?
My fellow Sunday School teachers also provided me with a yummy spaghetti dinner and great conversation.
I'm still eating the candy bouquet given to me by my friend & librarian (and fellow library board members).
I made arrangements to have Hannah ride the bus home from school this week, as they tend to frown on narcotic-high mommy drivers. Yesterday Hannah insisted to the bus driver that she was supposed to get off at her classmate, Sean's house, which she has done twice before, even though I had told her that very morning NOT to. I received a phone call from Sean's mom yesterday afternoon: "Do you know where Hannah is?" Of course, the answer to that question is no 85% of the time.
"Well, she's supposed to be on the bus coming home." Then it dawned on me. "Did she get off at your house?" Sure enough, she had. Natasha not only kept Hannah for the next couple of hours, she offered to do the same for the rest of this last week of school. Bliss.
I could go on and on. Carl and I have received many phone calls and offers of help. Katie and Hailey have been fantastic. Sheri brought over "Happy Hip Cake." Several people visited me in the hospital.
I am truly blessed.
Monday, April 12, 2010
A Little Overwhelm
Why oh why do I wait until the last minute to prepare our taxes? It's not as if April 15 is a surprise, that it suddenly arrives a month earlier than expected. It's not as if I'm playing outside during the bleak months of January and February. I shamefully procrastinate year after year, then crazily double check inventories, try to decipher strange accounting entries I made over a year ago and scramble through my "piles" of paperwork looking for stray forms and letters--all for our business, which operates in three (count 'em -- THREE) states.Ack!
This year has been slightly more hectic because I co-taught Katie's Confirmation class and Confirmation occurred a mere 5 days before tax day. I also volunteered to co-organize the track meet concession stands at the three home track meets in order to raise money for Katie's class trip next year--the first meet was held April 6.
April 6, April 10, April 15--all those countdowns coincided.
In addition to that, yesterday Hannah stuck something in her ear...AGAIN. My blog posts have been so sparse that I have failed to record the ear odyssey: this is the fourth time this school year that Hannah has shoved something so far into her right ear that I've had to take her to the doctor to remove it. One of those times the local doc couldn't grasp the smooth, round popcorn kernel and I had to take her to her ENT pediatrician, who used a special tool (with a special price) to suck it out. Is it strange to be thankful that the current occupant of her ear appears rough and rock-like? Yesterday her nostrils were blue as was the snot running out of them, apparently a result of blue M&Ms. At least they melt.
Wait. There's more. I pulled a crown off of my back molar while eating a caramel Friday. I broke a weak tooth a couple of months ago as a result of caramel. Evidently failure to learn lessons is a weakness in my family--Hannah won't keep foreign objects out of her ear and I don't keep caramel out of my mouth.
Today I need to (want to) drive to Commerce, Oklahoma to watch Katie run the mile and half mile in her first-ever track meet, before that I need to drive 20 miles in the opposite direction to refill a prescription, I need to schedule an appointment to remove the rock from Hannah's ear, I need to get organized so I can complete taxes, I need to...I need to...breathe.
Saturday, April 3, 2010
If Moms Wrote the Torah
As I did my Bible study this morning, I concluded that the Bible would be much shorter and the Old Testament Law much simpler if God would have used a mother of 8-10 small children (or a mother of any number of children that included a Hannah Savannah) to document its first five books (the Torah) instead of Moses. Why? I'm glad you asked.I've been taking part in a Bible study that walks through the storyline of salvation history. After Adam and Eve; Noah; Abraham, Isaac and Jacob; and Moses and the Israelites' crossing of the Red Sea and worshipping the golden calf and receiving the Ten Commandments; God called Moses to build a Dwelling for Him, which was basically a tent for the Holy of Holies surrounded by a (roughly) 150-foot by 75-foot Court created with linen walls. The directions for building the Court and the Tent and what to place in it were specific. Mind-numbingly specific.
Upon completion, I imagined the Dwelling--a clean, orderly, serene home for the Lord. He gave everything in it a specific place; you know, "a place for everything and everything in its place." They even had special bowls for washing their feet before entering (which seemed somewhat useless given the fact that they were in the sandy desert with sandy floors.) Surrounding the Dwelling was the cacophany of the twelve tribes of Israel: 603,550 men of military age, 22,000 Levite men over one month old, and their famililes. Oh, the noise!
Of course, I have a very 21st century, Americanized view of the Dwelling. Yes, they slaughtered several animals there in sacrifice to the Lord--a few here and a few there--but I still picture it as a quiet place set apart, a serene setting away from the nearly one million people outside, people who badgered Moses as their leader and justice of the peace and complained every step of the way. I prefer not to picture the bloodshed at this point, so allow me that. OK?
Once everything was in its place, the priests were ordained, each tribe was camped in the location given by the Lord and a cencus was taken, the Prince of each tribe brought an offering to the Dwelling. I'm not talking about a few shekels of silver or some pretty fabric. In all over a twelve-day period, the twelve tribes provided 252 animals--rams, oxen, goat, you name it. Two hundred and fifty-two animals in one place. Can you picture that? The smell. The bleating. The mooing. The dust. All in an area smaller than a football field, an area heretofore peaceful, mostly clean and orderly.
So how does this relate to my original question? Immediately after all those animals entered the dwelling, the Bible reads, "When Moses entered the meeting tent to speak with him, he heard the voice addressing him from above the propitiatory on the ark of the commandments, from between the two cherubim; and it spoke to him..."
Dot. Dot. Dot. The elipses aren't mine, they're actually in the Bible. After all the tedious details Moses previously documented, it seems he can't recall something as sublime as the Lord's words. And its no wonder--look at the mess and the chaos surrounding him.
Some days that's how I feel: surrounded by pandemonium, neverending noise, and disarray. I couldn't put together a lucid statement, can't remember why I entered a room and certainly can't commit the voice of God to memory, no matter how sublime. Many days look like this:
God: My daughter, today I ask you to...
Child: Mom! Hannah made a milk mess!
God: ...and remember to...
Child: Mom. Mom. Mom. Mom. MOM! There's a wet spot on the couch where Hannah was sitting!
God: ...and go in peace, my child.
Child: MOM! Hannah's driving your chair down the sidewalk!
It's no wonder Moses didn't write the Lord's words that day. For moms, it would have been just another day in paradise, with fewer words, less documentation and more, much more, well...unwritten, unrecognized more.
Sunday, February 28, 2010
Leaves of Three
In the warm summer days leading up to her first day of kindergarten, Katie went through a "decorating" phase, taking special pleasure in finding unique items with which to beautify her top bunk. At one point she brought in a pretty vine and showed it to me.
"That's pretty, Katie. Where did you find it?"
"Outside. I think I'll decorate my bed with it." And off she went.
On her first day of school Katie showed me a small, red patch on her cheek, complaining that it was itchy. I don't remember what I did--put Calamine lotion on it? Hydrocortisone? Ignore it? No matter, I sent her to school with her little rash. The next day it had spread. I sent her again. By the third day a large part of her body was covered with the strange, itchy rash and I became concerned, but I still sent her to school. I didn't want to start school looking like a parent who allowed her child to be chronically absent, especially over a little rash. Mother of the year. Yep.
Oh, but it gets better.
When the rash threatened to cover her entire body rather than resolve itself, I became a detective. (Better late than never, right?) What on earth could be causing this? Had I changed laundry detergents? Had she eaten something new and had an allergic reaction? I continued my sleuthing into her room where I noticed the dying vine hanging from her headboard, dropping its dried, crunchy leaves onto her pillow.
I think that the light bulb that went off over my head must have been one of those fluorescents that take forever to warm up. Could that vine be the culprit? What was it, exactly?
I approached Carl, "Didn't you say you had to spend the summer before kindergarten with your grandma because you had such a horrible reaction to something?"
"Yeah. It was poison ivy. I got it everywhere. Ev-ery-where." I think he crossed his legs at that point.
"Umm, what exactly does poison ivy look like?"
"You know. Leaves of three, let them be."
While my bulb was getting brighter, I had no idea what he was talking about.
He clarified, using incredible self-control to not roll his eyes at me. "It has three leaves."
"Is it a vine?" I asked.
"Yeah." The bulb above my head exploded at that point.
"Oh no. Will you come an look at this?" We climbed to the top bunk to inspect Katie's dying decor. Sure enough, it was poison ivy. And she'd been sleeping in it.
I don't know if it's a result of being saturated with the weed that one time or if it's genetic (Carl is extremely allergic to poison ivy), but Katie seems to develop a rash if the wind blows just right and poison ivy is in the vicinity. Yesterday when Carl took the girls fishing, Katie and Hailey took a romp through the surrounding wooded area. The only green they saw was grass; nevertheless, Katie has a rash today. Not Hailey, just Katie
How can she let be leaves of three when there remain no leaves to see?
"That's pretty, Katie. Where did you find it?"
"Outside. I think I'll decorate my bed with it." And off she went.
On her first day of school Katie showed me a small, red patch on her cheek, complaining that it was itchy. I don't remember what I did--put Calamine lotion on it? Hydrocortisone? Ignore it? No matter, I sent her to school with her little rash. The next day it had spread. I sent her again. By the third day a large part of her body was covered with the strange, itchy rash and I became concerned, but I still sent her to school. I didn't want to start school looking like a parent who allowed her child to be chronically absent, especially over a little rash. Mother of the year. Yep.
Oh, but it gets better.
When the rash threatened to cover her entire body rather than resolve itself, I became a detective. (Better late than never, right?) What on earth could be causing this? Had I changed laundry detergents? Had she eaten something new and had an allergic reaction? I continued my sleuthing into her room where I noticed the dying vine hanging from her headboard, dropping its dried, crunchy leaves onto her pillow.
I think that the light bulb that went off over my head must have been one of those fluorescents that take forever to warm up. Could that vine be the culprit? What was it, exactly?
I approached Carl, "Didn't you say you had to spend the summer before kindergarten with your grandma because you had such a horrible reaction to something?"
"Yeah. It was poison ivy. I got it everywhere. Ev-ery-where." I think he crossed his legs at that point.
"Umm, what exactly does poison ivy look like?"
"You know. Leaves of three, let them be."
While my bulb was getting brighter, I had no idea what he was talking about.
He clarified, using incredible self-control to not roll his eyes at me. "It has three leaves."
"Is it a vine?" I asked.
"Yeah." The bulb above my head exploded at that point.
"Oh no. Will you come an look at this?" We climbed to the top bunk to inspect Katie's dying decor. Sure enough, it was poison ivy. And she'd been sleeping in it.
I don't know if it's a result of being saturated with the weed that one time or if it's genetic (Carl is extremely allergic to poison ivy), but Katie seems to develop a rash if the wind blows just right and poison ivy is in the vicinity. Yesterday when Carl took the girls fishing, Katie and Hailey took a romp through the surrounding wooded area. The only green they saw was grass; nevertheless, Katie has a rash today. Not Hailey, just Katie
How can she let be leaves of three when there remain no leaves to see?
Wednesday, February 17, 2010
Her Name is NOT Chicken Butt
Recently Hannah and I visited one of my favorite places in town: the public library. Not only do I find free material to fuel my fascination with all things written, I get to enjoy my own little social hour. This particular evening provided comedy hour as well, courtesy of Hannah.
Hannah stood near the computers with a pack of other children. One of the kids, a classmate of hers, had a cell phone and was reading a text out loud that included the words chicken butt.
Immediately Hannah grabbed her tush and said, "Hey! Do not call me chicken butt!"
Startled, the little boy pointed to his cell phone and said, "I didn't call you that. It says chicken butt right here."
Hannah actually gasped, grabbed her butt again and said, "My name is not chicken butt." Everyone within earshot started chuckling. "Stop calling me chicken butt!" The chuckles became muffled laughs.
The poor kid tried to remedy the situation, but only made it worse by saying, "I'm not calling you chicken butt."
For whatever reason, Hannah didn't understand his explanation. Grabbing her butt again, she said, "Do NOT call me chicken butt! Call me Hannah!"
Between Hannah's repeated tush-grabbing, her obvious misunderstanding of the boy, and the juvenile humor of the term chicken butt, everyone burst into laughter.
And being the sensitive mother that I am, I just said, "Aw. I'm sorry. Come here, my little chicken butt."
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Boy, have I missed blogging. I've decided that instead of giving blogging up for Lent like many do, I'm going to take it back up again. Over the next few days I'll be doing some catch-up posting...all the way back to Halloween and earlier. Ah, catharsis.
Hannah stood near the computers with a pack of other children. One of the kids, a classmate of hers, had a cell phone and was reading a text out loud that included the words chicken butt.
Immediately Hannah grabbed her tush and said, "Hey! Do not call me chicken butt!"
Startled, the little boy pointed to his cell phone and said, "I didn't call you that. It says chicken butt right here."
Hannah actually gasped, grabbed her butt again and said, "My name is not chicken butt." Everyone within earshot started chuckling. "Stop calling me chicken butt!" The chuckles became muffled laughs.
The poor kid tried to remedy the situation, but only made it worse by saying, "I'm not calling you chicken butt."
For whatever reason, Hannah didn't understand his explanation. Grabbing her butt again, she said, "Do NOT call me chicken butt! Call me Hannah!"
Between Hannah's repeated tush-grabbing, her obvious misunderstanding of the boy, and the juvenile humor of the term chicken butt, everyone burst into laughter.
And being the sensitive mother that I am, I just said, "Aw. I'm sorry. Come here, my little chicken butt."
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Boy, have I missed blogging. I've decided that instead of giving blogging up for Lent like many do, I'm going to take it back up again. Over the next few days I'll be doing some catch-up posting...all the way back to Halloween and earlier. Ah, catharsis.
Saturday, July 18, 2009
Message in a Mayfly
Friday I crawled out of bed around 8:00, fixed myself a cup of coffee and ambled out to the back patio to enjoy the unseasonably cool morning. As soon as I exited the garage, I saw the ski boat hitched behind the Tahoe. Carl had been up and productive for a couple of hours.
With caffeinated excitement Carl asked, "Do you wanna go to the lake?"
I had not had my caffeine quota, so I merely grunted. I really didn't want to go. I hadn't been feeling well due to an abscessed tooth and was still leery of lake fun since I had a strange tingling sensation in my fingers after jumping in the lake on my birthday. Actually, tingling doesn't adequately describe the phenomenon. It felt like twin lightning bolts struck my shoulders, zig zagged past my elbows and built up energy in my hands before exploding through my fingertips, leaving hundreds of prickling electrodes pulsing in my fingertips. Yeah, like that.
I returned inside without making a decision and played on my laptop, all the while feeling more and more sorry for myself. I can be pretty fatalistic in my imagination when I allow it. Next time I get in the lake, I'll probably be paralyzed. Or Everyone else is going to have fun and I'm going to be left out more and more. Or I'm probably going to need to be in a care home before I'm fifty. Better yet, Maybe I'll die before I'm fifty. Like I said, fatalistic.
The beast arthritis had stolen my physical abilities, but was I really going to roll over and give it my spirit as well? Was I going to live my fatalistically few remaining years in the Valley of What If?
No!
Though arthritis constrained me, Someone gifted me with a husband who seems to have made it his mission to compensate for that, to literally lift me up when I have fallen and place me on safe ground. If I would only get up off my scaredy-pants covered butt, Carl would ensure that I had fun. So I put off my fears, put on my swim suit, grabbed my camera and left for the lake.
Man, am I ever glad I went. If I had stayed home, I would have missed this.
This was the first time any of our girls have gotten up on skis. Woohoo!
I also would have missed the moment when we parked the boat in the sand near the beach and Carl noticed hundreds of mayflies hanging on the tree limbs above us. He located a long stick and reached it up to shake the branches. Mayflies fluttered around us like the petals in The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe that merged and swirled to take the form of a messenger. Some flew away, some landed on us and the boat and some fell to the water where dozens of perch surfaced to eat them in a feeding frenzy. A few mayflies were able to take flight after landing on the water; but most that attempted to fly from the water remained trapped on its surface. I gently lifted a nearby mayfly from the water and placed it in the relative safety of the boat where it struggled to fly but remained constrained by saturation.
When I looked up, my husband smiled at me. I would have to abandon my little mayfly. But in that moment I fully comprehended the truth that Carl would not leave me.
With caffeinated excitement Carl asked, "Do you wanna go to the lake?"
I had not had my caffeine quota, so I merely grunted. I really didn't want to go. I hadn't been feeling well due to an abscessed tooth and was still leery of lake fun since I had a strange tingling sensation in my fingers after jumping in the lake on my birthday. Actually, tingling doesn't adequately describe the phenomenon. It felt like twin lightning bolts struck my shoulders, zig zagged past my elbows and built up energy in my hands before exploding through my fingertips, leaving hundreds of prickling electrodes pulsing in my fingertips. Yeah, like that.
I returned inside without making a decision and played on my laptop, all the while feeling more and more sorry for myself. I can be pretty fatalistic in my imagination when I allow it. Next time I get in the lake, I'll probably be paralyzed. Or Everyone else is going to have fun and I'm going to be left out more and more. Or I'm probably going to need to be in a care home before I'm fifty. Better yet, Maybe I'll die before I'm fifty. Like I said, fatalistic.
The beast arthritis had stolen my physical abilities, but was I really going to roll over and give it my spirit as well? Was I going to live my fatalistically few remaining years in the Valley of What If?
No!
Though arthritis constrained me, Someone gifted me with a husband who seems to have made it his mission to compensate for that, to literally lift me up when I have fallen and place me on safe ground. If I would only get up off my scaredy-pants covered butt, Carl would ensure that I had fun. So I put off my fears, put on my swim suit, grabbed my camera and left for the lake.
Man, am I ever glad I went. If I had stayed home, I would have missed this.
This was the first time any of our girls have gotten up on skis. Woohoo!
I also would have missed the moment when we parked the boat in the sand near the beach and Carl noticed hundreds of mayflies hanging on the tree limbs above us. He located a long stick and reached it up to shake the branches. Mayflies fluttered around us like the petals in The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe that merged and swirled to take the form of a messenger. Some flew away, some landed on us and the boat and some fell to the water where dozens of perch surfaced to eat them in a feeding frenzy. A few mayflies were able to take flight after landing on the water; but most that attempted to fly from the water remained trapped on its surface. I gently lifted a nearby mayfly from the water and placed it in the relative safety of the boat where it struggled to fly but remained constrained by saturation.
When I looked up, my husband smiled at me. I would have to abandon my little mayfly. But in that moment I fully comprehended the truth that Carl would not leave me.
Sunday, July 12, 2009
On New Laundry Rooms and Old Friends
As I've reviewed my last two posts, I realize I may have come across as a woman with a certain disdain towards her husband. While I will never be a gushy my-husband-is-my-best-friend (even though he is) kind of person who implies that her man is as close to perfection as the male species can come, I will state for the record that Carl is a well-above-average husband and person who is perfect for me. Even though he drives me nuts sometimes. Really nuts.
But I know I make him a little (or a lot) crazy at times too, and he's much better at hiding it.
The following pictorial shows, without a thousand words, some of the many reasons I am grateful to have Carl in my life.
Before you read on, you need to know that we spent the past Thursday through Sunday completing the latest phase of our building project. A 9' x 12' breezeway connects our existing house to the building project. I'm not sure what the original purpose of this room was, but it had three doors and six windows. We've used it as an office, an extended pantry, a junk room and a dirty-laundry-storage room, but none of these purposes seemed quite right. The mess in this room was the first to greet me when I entered the house from the garage. Talk about depressing. After I walked through this room, I passed through the cramped laundry cubby you can see behind Carl in the first picture below. Ick.
We (I) decided the room would best serve me as a laundry room, opening up our existing laundry cubby for pantry space. We closed off the third door and eliminated the bottom part of the two south windows so that the washer and dryer could not be viewed from outside. Because the room had a concrete floor, Carl built a raised wooden floor so that we could run the plumbing underneath and kept the 1' x 5' area above the pipes separate so it could be removed in the event of a water leak. We learned the pipe-breaking lesson the hard way.
I'll allow the pictures to help tell the rest of the story:
I searched high and low for a "before" picture and this is the best I could do. Carl and I had made a vegetable/relish tray for a get-together with friends and he spilled it on the way out. Believe it or not, I just laughed at the time and shot a few pictures. Now I'm thankful it all went that way because now I can point out the blinding yellow walls, the awful orange woodwork and the horrid green and white sticky tile. Also, notice the cramped, messy laundry space behind Carl and the clutter-magnet shelving under the windows on the left.
More veggie mess and a closer look at the old floor....
The mud and tape in the two picture below outline the door and window openings that Carl enclosed.
Below, Katie and Hailey were standing in front of the now-closed-in third doorway back in 1999. Even our exterior brick used to be orange! What is it with orange and the fifties? We have since painted the brick white.
Surely you expected that Wonderworker Extraordinaire (a.k.a. Grandma Janis) was part of this big project. She actually took two vacation days so that she could arrive Thursday and help through Sunday. Mom--you're awesome! Her planned arrival benefited us in two ways. First, we had a deadline to be ready, which kept us (Carl) very busy the past few weeks. Second, her painting abilities and eye for detail are unsurpassed.
Even Hannah got in on the action and painted the corner, and her hair, and her arms...
As I mentioned earlier, Carl made the section above the pipes removable as you can see below.
Voila! New placement of my washer and dryer.
Notice the arched doorway. Carl did a nice job creating that arch, don't you think?
We purchased a new light. That may be boring to you, but if you lived with the flickering round fluorescent light that mounted there before, you'd be as excited as I am!
Look at the gorgeous empty space and beautiful ceramic tile. We will install a sink to the left of the washer and...
...and Carl's next project is building a cupboard unit, outlined by the blue tape below, that will hide all of our dirty laundry, coats, and whatever else. This room will have the ability to always appear neat, clean and tidy. Of course, that requires that I keep it neat, clean and tidy. Anyhow, I'm sure we'll manage to stash and dash whenever company comes.
Weekends like this remind me of how blessed I am. Sometimes I tend to have myself a nice little pity party: look at everything I can't do, I'm so tired, my joint hurt, blah blah blah. But when I take off the blinders created by that pity, I realize I am surrounded by people who make up for my limitations and cause my life to feel full, even overflowing. And I'm not just talking about my mom and husband.
Liz is here every Monday, not just cleaning my house, but doing extras that a maid service would never provide, including listening and visiting and general friending.
Sheri stops in regularly when delivering the mail or even when she isn't.
I talk to my sister, Ashley, several times a week--she even bought me a new stereo for my birthday. Woohoo!
My mother-in-law visits once a month and insists on bringing so much food that some has to be stored in the deep freeze. While she's here she refuses to relax and instead spends her entire visit doing laundry.
My children are constantly assisting me with what should be little things, but have become larger obstacles as the arthritis robs me of mobility. I know I sound proud when I tell you that they have a level of independence I rarely see in preteens. Even Hannah, at age 6, can cook her own eggs from start to finish if someone will turn on the stove for her. I sound proud because I am.
Pop and I talk at least once a week and we even took a trip to Texas over Father's Day weekend. A couple of years ago he came down for an entire week to paint my kitchen cupboards. I should post pictures of THAT project. Whew!
I have blogging friends and facebook friends as well. Some people scoff at "virtual" friendships, or at the least view them with a wary eye. But on the days when getting out of the house is next to impossible for me, these people visit with me in my living room and make life less "alone."
When I am able to get out of the house, I almost always run into someone I know. I can't name everyone, but that doesn't diminish their importance in my life.
And I have to end with a plug for Carl. How many men would stick with a wife who slowly becomes more and more of a responsibility and less and less of an equal partner? In this day and age men frequently leave for much lesser reasons. While they all promise "in sickness and in health," few are challenged beyond a bout with the flu. Carl has a true servant's heart and not only makes our lives spontaneous and fun, but manages to continue to make me feel attractive and desirable in the process.
Yep, he's a keeper. Even though he drives me nuts sometimes. Really nuts.
But I know I make him a little (or a lot) crazy at times too, and he's much better at hiding it.
The following pictorial shows, without a thousand words, some of the many reasons I am grateful to have Carl in my life.
Before you read on, you need to know that we spent the past Thursday through Sunday completing the latest phase of our building project. A 9' x 12' breezeway connects our existing house to the building project. I'm not sure what the original purpose of this room was, but it had three doors and six windows. We've used it as an office, an extended pantry, a junk room and a dirty-laundry-storage room, but none of these purposes seemed quite right. The mess in this room was the first to greet me when I entered the house from the garage. Talk about depressing. After I walked through this room, I passed through the cramped laundry cubby you can see behind Carl in the first picture below. Ick.
We (I) decided the room would best serve me as a laundry room, opening up our existing laundry cubby for pantry space. We closed off the third door and eliminated the bottom part of the two south windows so that the washer and dryer could not be viewed from outside. Because the room had a concrete floor, Carl built a raised wooden floor so that we could run the plumbing underneath and kept the 1' x 5' area above the pipes separate so it could be removed in the event of a water leak. We learned the pipe-breaking lesson the hard way.
I'll allow the pictures to help tell the rest of the story:
I searched high and low for a "before" picture and this is the best I could do. Carl and I had made a vegetable/relish tray for a get-together with friends and he spilled it on the way out. Believe it or not, I just laughed at the time and shot a few pictures. Now I'm thankful it all went that way because now I can point out the blinding yellow walls, the awful orange woodwork and the horrid green and white sticky tile. Also, notice the cramped, messy laundry space behind Carl and the clutter-magnet shelving under the windows on the left.
More veggie mess and a closer look at the old floor....
The mud and tape in the two picture below outline the door and window openings that Carl enclosed.
Below, Katie and Hailey were standing in front of the now-closed-in third doorway back in 1999. Even our exterior brick used to be orange! What is it with orange and the fifties? We have since painted the brick white.
Even Hannah got in on the action and painted the corner, and her hair, and her arms...
As I mentioned earlier, Carl made the section above the pipes removable as you can see below.
Voila! New placement of my washer and dryer.
Notice the arched doorway. Carl did a nice job creating that arch, don't you think?
We purchased a new light. That may be boring to you, but if you lived with the flickering round fluorescent light that mounted there before, you'd be as excited as I am!
Look at the gorgeous empty space and beautiful ceramic tile. We will install a sink to the left of the washer and...
...and Carl's next project is building a cupboard unit, outlined by the blue tape below, that will hide all of our dirty laundry, coats, and whatever else. This room will have the ability to always appear neat, clean and tidy. Of course, that requires that I keep it neat, clean and tidy. Anyhow, I'm sure we'll manage to stash and dash whenever company comes.
Weekends like this remind me of how blessed I am. Sometimes I tend to have myself a nice little pity party: look at everything I can't do, I'm so tired, my joint hurt, blah blah blah. But when I take off the blinders created by that pity, I realize I am surrounded by people who make up for my limitations and cause my life to feel full, even overflowing. And I'm not just talking about my mom and husband.
Liz is here every Monday, not just cleaning my house, but doing extras that a maid service would never provide, including listening and visiting and general friending.
Sheri stops in regularly when delivering the mail or even when she isn't.
I talk to my sister, Ashley, several times a week--she even bought me a new stereo for my birthday. Woohoo!
My mother-in-law visits once a month and insists on bringing so much food that some has to be stored in the deep freeze. While she's here she refuses to relax and instead spends her entire visit doing laundry.
My children are constantly assisting me with what should be little things, but have become larger obstacles as the arthritis robs me of mobility. I know I sound proud when I tell you that they have a level of independence I rarely see in preteens. Even Hannah, at age 6, can cook her own eggs from start to finish if someone will turn on the stove for her. I sound proud because I am.
Pop and I talk at least once a week and we even took a trip to Texas over Father's Day weekend. A couple of years ago he came down for an entire week to paint my kitchen cupboards. I should post pictures of THAT project. Whew!
I have blogging friends and facebook friends as well. Some people scoff at "virtual" friendships, or at the least view them with a wary eye. But on the days when getting out of the house is next to impossible for me, these people visit with me in my living room and make life less "alone."
When I am able to get out of the house, I almost always run into someone I know. I can't name everyone, but that doesn't diminish their importance in my life.
And I have to end with a plug for Carl. How many men would stick with a wife who slowly becomes more and more of a responsibility and less and less of an equal partner? In this day and age men frequently leave for much lesser reasons. While they all promise "in sickness and in health," few are challenged beyond a bout with the flu. Carl has a true servant's heart and not only makes our lives spontaneous and fun, but manages to continue to make me feel attractive and desirable in the process.
Yep, he's a keeper. Even though he drives me nuts sometimes. Really nuts.
Thursday, July 2, 2009
Who's The Boss?
I'm warning you up front that this brief entry is Rated R. Don't read on if you're easily offended...but it's not that bad.
In one of the first scenes in the movie Bobby, which Carl and I are watching, one cute, 1960s hotel switchboard operator asks another if she wants to go to the party that evening.
"I didn't think employees were allowed to go to the party," was the response. Or something like that.
Cute switchboard operator replies, "Screwing the boss has its advantages." Giggle giggle.
I turned to Carl and said, "I've been screwin' the boss and I'm not seeing any advantages." Keep in mind, we're self-employed.
Carl waited a beat and said, "I thought I was screwin' the boss."
Touché.
In one of the first scenes in the movie Bobby, which Carl and I are watching, one cute, 1960s hotel switchboard operator asks another if she wants to go to the party that evening.
"I didn't think employees were allowed to go to the party," was the response. Or something like that.
Cute switchboard operator replies, "Screwing the boss has its advantages." Giggle giggle.
I turned to Carl and said, "I've been screwin' the boss and I'm not seeing any advantages." Keep in mind, we're self-employed.
Carl waited a beat and said, "I thought I was screwin' the boss."
Touché.
Tuesday, June 30, 2009
Most Drawn-out Birthday Celebration Ever
Yesterday I received a Wii Sports Game Disc in the mail. "Wow, girls! Thank you so much--what a great idea for a birthday gift!" I gushed.
With confused looks on their faces, they both said, "Ummm, we didn't get that, Mom."
"Really? Well then, who did? It was a perfect idea. Maybe you should call your dad and ask him."
When Carl answered his phone, Hailey asked, "Dad, did you buy Mom a Wii Sports disc?"
Pause.
"If you didn't, who did?" Hailey asked.
Pause.
"Oh," Hailey replied to Carl, then turned to me. "Did you buy it for yourself, Mom?" she questioned with accusation in her voice.
I replied, "What? Hmmm. I guess I did. But wasn't that the perfect idea for a gift?"
See, I could tell by early last week that no one had given much thought to my birthday present this year, but I'm not one to pout. Instead I got on e-bay and found just what I wanted.
"We're making something for you, Mom. It just isn't finished yet," Katie informed me. Keep in mind, my birthday was Saturday.
"That's nice. Until then, is anyone up for some tennis?"
"No, we have something to do," they answered, then suspiciously scurried upstairs.
About thirty minutes later they asked if they could walk to Casey's for something, but they couldn't reveal what something was. I allowed it, knowing it was key to my birthday gift. I'm smart like that.
After returning from the convenience store and spending a few more minutes upstairs, they entered the dining room shouting, "Don't look, Mom!"
Finally, the big reveal:
The white sign says, "It's your day, be merry and eat candy." Then says "candy" again with an arrow pointing to--you guessed it--the candy.
They painted a flower pot and a tin can gold and attached turkey feathers left over from the turkey Carl shot this spring. "We disinfected the feathers, Mom. Don't worry." The "feet" are full of peanut M&Ms. Smart girls. They know that chocolate heals anything.
This present was worth waiting for.
With confused looks on their faces, they both said, "Ummm, we didn't get that, Mom."
"Really? Well then, who did? It was a perfect idea. Maybe you should call your dad and ask him."
When Carl answered his phone, Hailey asked, "Dad, did you buy Mom a Wii Sports disc?"
Pause.
"If you didn't, who did?" Hailey asked.
Pause.
"Oh," Hailey replied to Carl, then turned to me. "Did you buy it for yourself, Mom?" she questioned with accusation in her voice.
I replied, "What? Hmmm. I guess I did. But wasn't that the perfect idea for a gift?"
See, I could tell by early last week that no one had given much thought to my birthday present this year, but I'm not one to pout. Instead I got on e-bay and found just what I wanted.
"We're making something for you, Mom. It just isn't finished yet," Katie informed me. Keep in mind, my birthday was Saturday.
"That's nice. Until then, is anyone up for some tennis?"
"No, we have something to do," they answered, then suspiciously scurried upstairs.
About thirty minutes later they asked if they could walk to Casey's for something, but they couldn't reveal what something was. I allowed it, knowing it was key to my birthday gift. I'm smart like that.
After returning from the convenience store and spending a few more minutes upstairs, they entered the dining room shouting, "Don't look, Mom!"
Finally, the big reveal:
They painted a flower pot and a tin can gold and attached turkey feathers left over from the turkey Carl shot this spring. "We disinfected the feathers, Mom. Don't worry." The "feet" are full of peanut M&Ms. Smart girls. They know that chocolate heals anything.
This present was worth waiting for.
Sunday, June 28, 2009
Birthday Tests
My real--as opposed to virtual--birthday has come and gone. I celebrated my 41st by going to Grand Lake with my family, taking our new-to-us ski boat on its maiden voyage. For my Colorado friends: we have a Grand Lake too, but ours feels like bath water.
Sadly, I have no pictures. Somehow I managed to whack out my elbows and spent the entire day alone in a cheap motel watching AMC movies starring either Wesley Snipes or Bruce Willis. How did I manage to damage my elbows, you ask? Surely I was tubing or doing something remotely daring. Alas, no. I sat on the top step of the boat, which is practically in the water, held my life jacket in my hands, and slid forward into the water. No strange popping sensation. No awkward movement. In fact, it was all rather smooth and graceful, until both elbows zinged as if I had hit my funny bones and my fingers continued to tingle. They still tingle a bit, causing me to type with my left ring finger and my right index finger and thumb.
When the pain failed to subside (imagine nonstop funny-bone-zinging) and I began to bake in the hundred degree heat index, I cried uncle and headed back to town. Carl and the girls settled me in to my budget room with bottled water, Mike's Hard Lemonade, snickers bars and the TV remote, then returned to the lake, promising to call me every hour.
During the first phone call Hailey cried to me out of frustration at her inability to get up on skis. I reassured her that she had too much Solomon blood in her for that particular inability to linger long (because Carl has water skied since age five, I love to watch himshow off ski--don't tell him I said that, though. I have to live with him). Once Hailey calmed she handed the phone to Hannah who cried and said her tummy hurt. My Mommy Radar screamed on high alert, knowing that Carl does not consider basic needs like hydration as well as he skis. Getting Hailey back on the phone, I charged her with the responsibility of ensuring that everyone drank extra water and made it home alive. She informed me that Hannah was fake crying, but she'd make sure everyone had plenty to drink.
The next two phone calls went much better, between which I dozed and watched the aforementioned movies. They returned to my room around 6:00 looking like happy, red, tired lobsters. They intended to cool off then return to the lake, but they never made it back.
Because the Tahoe's air conditioning blew hot and cold that morning, we decided to hang out and watch more movies until the temps dropped into the cooler eighties before heading home. We finally drove into the garage at 10:30.
I'm beginning to feel better this evening. The tingling has subsided some, replaced by an intense ache and weakness in my hands and wrists. But, I'm a thinker. It's a curse. When things like my odd elbow injury happen, I wonder why. Not as in why me, just why? What purpose did it serve? Was I supposed to learn something? Was my family? Because if we were, I'm not getting it. I'm proud that it didn't get my family down. We still had a good time doing something other than watching television or separately playing something electronic. Well, I guess I watched TV, but you know what I'm saying.
If I'm supposed to be learning something or changing something, I'd appreciate it if someone would clue me in, or at least give me a hint. Normally I'm a quick study, but I seem to be taking this one test over and over. I'd like to ace it and move on.
Sadly, I have no pictures. Somehow I managed to whack out my elbows and spent the entire day alone in a cheap motel watching AMC movies starring either Wesley Snipes or Bruce Willis. How did I manage to damage my elbows, you ask? Surely I was tubing or doing something remotely daring. Alas, no. I sat on the top step of the boat, which is practically in the water, held my life jacket in my hands, and slid forward into the water. No strange popping sensation. No awkward movement. In fact, it was all rather smooth and graceful, until both elbows zinged as if I had hit my funny bones and my fingers continued to tingle. They still tingle a bit, causing me to type with my left ring finger and my right index finger and thumb.
When the pain failed to subside (imagine nonstop funny-bone-zinging) and I began to bake in the hundred degree heat index, I cried uncle and headed back to town. Carl and the girls settled me in to my budget room with bottled water, Mike's Hard Lemonade, snickers bars and the TV remote, then returned to the lake, promising to call me every hour.
During the first phone call Hailey cried to me out of frustration at her inability to get up on skis. I reassured her that she had too much Solomon blood in her for that particular inability to linger long (because Carl has water skied since age five, I love to watch him
The next two phone calls went much better, between which I dozed and watched the aforementioned movies. They returned to my room around 6:00 looking like happy, red, tired lobsters. They intended to cool off then return to the lake, but they never made it back.
Because the Tahoe's air conditioning blew hot and cold that morning, we decided to hang out and watch more movies until the temps dropped into the cooler eighties before heading home. We finally drove into the garage at 10:30.
I'm beginning to feel better this evening. The tingling has subsided some, replaced by an intense ache and weakness in my hands and wrists. But, I'm a thinker. It's a curse. When things like my odd elbow injury happen, I wonder why. Not as in why me, just why? What purpose did it serve? Was I supposed to learn something? Was my family? Because if we were, I'm not getting it. I'm proud that it didn't get my family down. We still had a good time doing something other than watching television or separately playing something electronic. Well, I guess I watched TV, but you know what I'm saying.
If I'm supposed to be learning something or changing something, I'd appreciate it if someone would clue me in, or at least give me a hint. Normally I'm a quick study, but I seem to be taking this one test over and over. I'd like to ace it and move on.
Thursday, June 25, 2009
You're Invited
Saturday I turn forty-one, just a heartbeat away from being fifty. I don't mind being in my forties, but turning fifty just sounds old. Am I borrowing trouble?I have no plans for my 41st birthday yet. I've been feeling crummy the last few days and discovered yesterday that it's the result of an abscessed tooth. Until the antibiotics kick in, I won't feel like planning anything except a movie marathon viewed from my couch.
That's where you come in. Shamelessly piggy-backing on my blogger buddy, Tara's, idea, I'm planning a last-minute cyber-birthday party. All you have to do is post your favorite party food or drink recipe in the comments, along with any other celebration ideas or thoughts, and Saturday we PARTY! Virtual party, of course. Consider yourself invited--no R.S.V.P. required.
Tuesday, June 16, 2009
Life in Tornado Alley
I live smack dab in the middle of tornado alley and have all of my life. I grew up on a farm fifteen miles from town, which is the same as as saying fifteen miles from nowhere. We didn't have tornado sirens on the farm, so the whole siren thing has taken getting used to.
As a child I was frightened of storms. More specifically, I was frightened to be ALONE during storms. Nowadays I'm energized by them, as if the electricity in the air absorbs through my skin and travels through my bloodstream. Rain, lightning, thunder, hail, high winds. I'm fascinated by them all. Nevertheless, despite my voyeurism, I have never seen a funnel firsthand. Never.
The first few times the siren went off here, Carl was still at work. We didn't have a basement so I gathered the three girls and went to the neighbor's basement. I did that twice and neither time did a tornado touch down. I learned that the sirens are turned on whenever the clouds contain rotation that could easily drop down in funnel form, but a funnel does not have to be present.
After the sirens had cried wolf twice, I began ignoring them. One morning I was awakened at 6:30 to the sound of high wind. I laid in bed listening groggily as it wailed through my yard at higher and higher decibels. I became uneasy but thought, "There's no siren. I'm not crawling out of bed yet." Suddenly I heard CRACK and BAM followed by the sound of a locomotive barrelling down the street, but still no siren. Carl and I leaped out of bed, opened the front door and gazed on unbelievable destruction.
Entire trees had been uprooted and laid over into the street. The electricity went out and stayed out the entire day. The wind died down so we awakened the girls and drove around to try to determine what the heck had happened. I had never seen destruction like that without a tornado siren. Enormous trees were uprooted everywhere, two of our neighbors had trees fall through their roofs, and power lines laid dangerously across many roads.
It turns out it wasn't a tornado, but was a straight-line wind, which doesn't trigger a siren. Thankfully no one was seriously injured in our town, which was a miracle. If I ever get a chance to scan the pictures I have from that day, I will. Until then, here are some pictures of a straight-line wind storm we had in May of this year. Again, no siren.
Katie, Hailey and friend Shelby in front of an uprooted tree. I wish I would have taken a picture that captured the depth of the cavern left from the tree root.
A broken tree...
Another uprooted tree that landed on a van.
Same van, different angle....
Mother nature is a powerful beast.
As a child I was frightened of storms. More specifically, I was frightened to be ALONE during storms. Nowadays I'm energized by them, as if the electricity in the air absorbs through my skin and travels through my bloodstream. Rain, lightning, thunder, hail, high winds. I'm fascinated by them all. Nevertheless, despite my voyeurism, I have never seen a funnel firsthand. Never.
The first few times the siren went off here, Carl was still at work. We didn't have a basement so I gathered the three girls and went to the neighbor's basement. I did that twice and neither time did a tornado touch down. I learned that the sirens are turned on whenever the clouds contain rotation that could easily drop down in funnel form, but a funnel does not have to be present.
After the sirens had cried wolf twice, I began ignoring them. One morning I was awakened at 6:30 to the sound of high wind. I laid in bed listening groggily as it wailed through my yard at higher and higher decibels. I became uneasy but thought, "There's no siren. I'm not crawling out of bed yet." Suddenly I heard CRACK and BAM followed by the sound of a locomotive barrelling down the street, but still no siren. Carl and I leaped out of bed, opened the front door and gazed on unbelievable destruction.
Entire trees had been uprooted and laid over into the street. The electricity went out and stayed out the entire day. The wind died down so we awakened the girls and drove around to try to determine what the heck had happened. I had never seen destruction like that without a tornado siren. Enormous trees were uprooted everywhere, two of our neighbors had trees fall through their roofs, and power lines laid dangerously across many roads.
It turns out it wasn't a tornado, but was a straight-line wind, which doesn't trigger a siren. Thankfully no one was seriously injured in our town, which was a miracle. If I ever get a chance to scan the pictures I have from that day, I will. Until then, here are some pictures of a straight-line wind storm we had in May of this year. Again, no siren.
Katie, Hailey and friend Shelby in front of an uprooted tree. I wish I would have taken a picture that captured the depth of the cavern left from the tree root.
A broken tree...
Another uprooted tree that landed on a van.
Same van, different angle....
Mother nature is a powerful beast.
Monday, June 15, 2009
Special
"She always ruins EVERYTHING!" Katie screamed with tears in her eyes as she carried Hannah from upstairs to me in the kitchen downstairs. I rapidly envisioned several special items that Hannah might have broken: a ceramic statue, a piece of artwork, even the walls weren't immune from Destructo-Hannah.
"What did she ruin this time?" I asked Katie as I cringed inwardly. Unfortunately this had been an ongoing problem. Our neighbor girl, Emily, and Hailey stomped in to support Katie. Great.
"I had these special sticky notes set out that were a special color and Hannah ripped them all apart and flung them all over the deck!" More tears. Oh, the drama.
Hannah looked at me with guilty blue eyes. "Hannah, how would you like it if they ripped the head off of your monkey?" No response. I tried to think of something she played with every day. "What if they broke your tricycle, Hannah? Wouldn't you be sad?"
The three big girls behind me erupted in giggles until I remembered: they HAD broken her tricycle. A few weeks ago Katie and Emily had been driving a riding lawn mower around and accidentally rammed it into Hannah's tricycle, destroying one of her tires. After Katie and Emily repaired the tire, we began calling Hannah "Pebbles" after the Flinstones character. Can you see why?
The tension was accidentally broken as well.
You would think the sticky notes were a present or a unique color or at least something Katie had been saving, right? Wrong. Because Katie just rescued them yesterday from a long life buried in Carl's shop, their "special" color was faded pink and they had been rendered virtually sticky-less. Good grief.
About an hour later Hannah walked up to me with her hand behind her back and whispered, "I have a present for you."
Now that's special.
"What did she ruin this time?" I asked Katie as I cringed inwardly. Unfortunately this had been an ongoing problem. Our neighbor girl, Emily, and Hailey stomped in to support Katie. Great.
"I had these special sticky notes set out that were a special color and Hannah ripped them all apart and flung them all over the deck!" More tears. Oh, the drama.
Hannah looked at me with guilty blue eyes. "Hannah, how would you like it if they ripped the head off of your monkey?" No response. I tried to think of something she played with every day. "What if they broke your tricycle, Hannah? Wouldn't you be sad?"
The three big girls behind me erupted in giggles until I remembered: they HAD broken her tricycle. A few weeks ago Katie and Emily had been driving a riding lawn mower around and accidentally rammed it into Hannah's tricycle, destroying one of her tires. After Katie and Emily repaired the tire, we began calling Hannah "Pebbles" after the Flinstones character. Can you see why?
The tension was accidentally broken as well.
You would think the sticky notes were a present or a unique color or at least something Katie had been saving, right? Wrong. Because Katie just rescued them yesterday from a long life buried in Carl's shop, their "special" color was faded pink and they had been rendered virtually sticky-less. Good grief.
About an hour later Hannah walked up to me with her hand behind her back and whispered, "I have a present for you."
Now that's special.
Friday, June 12, 2009
Small Town Living
I'm reading the Twilight series. I originally intended to blame that on Katie because she considered reading it and I wanted to preview it before she did. However, since she found it boring, she didn't get past chapter two of the first book. I, on the other hand, finished the third book today and want to begin the fourth immediately. Please don't think less of me.
Because Hannah is fishing with Carl, the house is hushed--perfect for a junk novel reading marathon. Outside the sky is the brilliant blue only seen after rain has washed the haze from the sky, but surprisingly the humidity is low despite that same rain. I chose to ride my Hoveround the three blocks to the library to return book three in exchange for book four, Breaking Dawn.
I parked my chair outside (I prefer not to use the elevator unless I'm having a difficult day because it requires my bothering Liz for a key--besides, I could use the exercise). As I walked up the air-conditioned steps inside the library, I saw Katie's Sunday school teacher who asked me about a conference she had mentioned to me a few weeks ago. We visited a few minutes before I approached the front desk to return some books and movies. There I saw two other ladies I knew and we joked about brain fog and discussed different people associated with In Cold Blood. Unfortunately Breaking Dawn wasn't available, so I chatted with Liz for a few more minutes and headed home.
Experiencing a sudden need for chocolate (does this ever happen to you?), I decided to stop in at the post office. Sheri keeps a stash behind the desk there for kids, but I figured I could bum some kind of chocolate off of her. In the two blocks I travelled to the USPS, three people I knew drove by and waved.
As I drove my chair across the marble floor of the Post Office, Sheri gave me crap because her best friend had the audacity to show up at 4:29--one minute before she closed the front desk.
"Well, I don't need much. I just wanted a..."
"A stamp?" she interrupted.
I placed a quarter on the counter and said, "No, actually I'm in desperate need of chocolate. I didn't realize the time."
She cackled and said "Suuuure you didn't." But being the friend that she is, she came through with a Snickers. In the time that it took her to dig it out of the drawer, an acquaintance came in at the last minute. We all joked about how he would have been out of luck if I wouldn't have shown up right at 4:30--some friend. Yuk. Yuk. Yuk. Before I left, I asked Sheri if I could borrow her copy of Breaking Dawn. Chocolate and a book. I definitely owe her.
Why am I rambling on and on about these mundane meetings? I love this little town. I love that people wave at each other, that in the span of three blocks I am reminded of how blessed I am with my simple life. Cheered by the sunshine and camaraderie, I feel an unexpected gratitude. I wish I could say I was one of those people who kept a gratitude journal, who made a habit of consciously recognizing her blessings. But I'm not. Ashamedly I admit that I'm more apt to notice what's missing or messed up. So when gratitude sneaks up on me, I'm compelled to make a note of it.
Breaking Dawn beckons. Time to set out on that marathon.
Because Hannah is fishing with Carl, the house is hushed--perfect for a junk novel reading marathon. Outside the sky is the brilliant blue only seen after rain has washed the haze from the sky, but surprisingly the humidity is low despite that same rain. I chose to ride my Hoveround the three blocks to the library to return book three in exchange for book four, Breaking Dawn.
I parked my chair outside (I prefer not to use the elevator unless I'm having a difficult day because it requires my bothering Liz for a key--besides, I could use the exercise). As I walked up the air-conditioned steps inside the library, I saw Katie's Sunday school teacher who asked me about a conference she had mentioned to me a few weeks ago. We visited a few minutes before I approached the front desk to return some books and movies. There I saw two other ladies I knew and we joked about brain fog and discussed different people associated with In Cold Blood. Unfortunately Breaking Dawn wasn't available, so I chatted with Liz for a few more minutes and headed home.
Experiencing a sudden need for chocolate (does this ever happen to you?), I decided to stop in at the post office. Sheri keeps a stash behind the desk there for kids, but I figured I could bum some kind of chocolate off of her. In the two blocks I travelled to the USPS, three people I knew drove by and waved.
As I drove my chair across the marble floor of the Post Office, Sheri gave me crap because her best friend had the audacity to show up at 4:29--one minute before she closed the front desk.
"Well, I don't need much. I just wanted a..."
"A stamp?" she interrupted.
I placed a quarter on the counter and said, "No, actually I'm in desperate need of chocolate. I didn't realize the time."
She cackled and said "Suuuure you didn't." But being the friend that she is, she came through with a Snickers. In the time that it took her to dig it out of the drawer, an acquaintance came in at the last minute. We all joked about how he would have been out of luck if I wouldn't have shown up right at 4:30--some friend. Yuk. Yuk. Yuk. Before I left, I asked Sheri if I could borrow her copy of Breaking Dawn. Chocolate and a book. I definitely owe her.
Why am I rambling on and on about these mundane meetings? I love this little town. I love that people wave at each other, that in the span of three blocks I am reminded of how blessed I am with my simple life. Cheered by the sunshine and camaraderie, I feel an unexpected gratitude. I wish I could say I was one of those people who kept a gratitude journal, who made a habit of consciously recognizing her blessings. But I'm not. Ashamedly I admit that I'm more apt to notice what's missing or messed up. So when gratitude sneaks up on me, I'm compelled to make a note of it.
Breaking Dawn beckons. Time to set out on that marathon.
Friday, June 5, 2009
Day Trip Number One
The girls counted down their last four hours of the school year on May 22. By May 23 I already began hearing, "There's nothing to do!" Those words ceased the minute I informed them that I could find something for them to do, like washing clothes, washing the car, washing the floors...lots and lots of washing. However, their heavy sighs and hunched shoulders whined more loudly than any mere word.
At ages twelve and eleven, Katie and Hailey are not only fun travel companions, they are also excellent Hannah helpers. I decided I would plan hopefully-weekly girls days out this summer, probably one of the last summers that my girls will consider a day out with mom fun.
Yesterday morning I loaded my Hoveround while Katie and Hailey packed lunch boxes of peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, cheese and crackers, fruits and veggies and drinks as well as a sack of extra clothes for Hannah Savannah and drove the ol' Tahoe to Coffeyville, Kansas. I began our outing with a hasty prayer along the lines of, "God, help us have a fun and successful day. And especially help us to be patient when things go wrong, because something surely will. Amen." Norman Vincent Peale (whose name is hyperlinked there, dang this dark background!) probably would not have approved, but if you've trekked anywhere with kids, you know my prayer was pertinent.
Our first stop was The Dalton Museum, home of all things Dalton Gang related.
In 1892 five men attempted to rob two banks in Coffeyville. Four of them were killed by Coffeyville citizens and the fifth was reformed after doing a stint at Lansing. We had already toured the museum once, a few years ago, and found it to be somewhat boring, so I promised the girls we would make this stop a short one. However, this year we all enjoyed it, thanks largely to John and Wendy, the husband and wife team who were manning the museum that day. They gave Katie and Hailey a scavenger hunt list of twenty items as well as plenty of hints when the girls became discouraged. John even offered to keep an eye on Hannah so I could help, which took constant concentration since many items, including but definitely not limited to an old cash register (so many buttons to push) and an antique metal bathtub (just her size), were kept on the floor. Here she is standing beside an antique bottle capper.
At ages twelve and eleven, Katie and Hailey are not only fun travel companions, they are also excellent Hannah helpers. I decided I would plan hopefully-weekly girls days out this summer, probably one of the last summers that my girls will consider a day out with mom fun.
Yesterday morning I loaded my Hoveround while Katie and Hailey packed lunch boxes of peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, cheese and crackers, fruits and veggies and drinks as well as a sack of extra clothes for Hannah Savannah and drove the ol' Tahoe to Coffeyville, Kansas. I began our outing with a hasty prayer along the lines of, "God, help us have a fun and successful day. And especially help us to be patient when things go wrong, because something surely will. Amen." Norman Vincent Peale (whose name is hyperlinked there, dang this dark background!) probably would not have approved, but if you've trekked anywhere with kids, you know my prayer was pertinent.
Our first stop was The Dalton Museum, home of all things Dalton Gang related.
In 1892 five men attempted to rob two banks in Coffeyville. Four of them were killed by Coffeyville citizens and the fifth was reformed after doing a stint at Lansing. We had already toured the museum once, a few years ago, and found it to be somewhat boring, so I promised the girls we would make this stop a short one. However, this year we all enjoyed it, thanks largely to John and Wendy, the husband and wife team who were manning the museum that day. They gave Katie and Hailey a scavenger hunt list of twenty items as well as plenty of hints when the girls became discouraged. John even offered to keep an eye on Hannah so I could help, which took constant concentration since many items, including but definitely not limited to an old cash register (so many buttons to push) and an antique metal bathtub (just her size), were kept on the floor. Here she is standing beside an antique bottle capper.
This mural remains the most memorable element of the museum, a movie-screen sized portrait of the four dead Dalton Gang members. The sign below it reads "CRIME DOES NOT PAY." Many fliers of that picture and caption were distributed in the late 1890s in an effort to deter criminal activity. What do you suppose would happen if we did the same today? Or if we laid out a row of overdosed drug addicts with the caption "DRUGS KILL."
On the television to Katie's right we could have watched an excellent documentary produced by The History Channel, but I'd seen it before and knew Hannah would never sit through it.
We just had to do the tourist-y pose:
The girls correctly answered all of the questions on the scavenger hunt, which merited them a couple of mock newspapers about the infamous day. After saying our goodbyes we headed towards the bank the Dalton Gang held up, which has been preserved. First I wanted to stop at the Tahoe for a drink, so I asked Hailey for the keys. I had handed them to her because her shorts had pockets. She looked in the back pocket of my Hoveround where she had put them without my knowledge, but they weren't there.
"I saw Hannah with them," Katie informed us. "In the museum."
I wanted to sarcastically ask, "And you didn't take them from her?" but I held my tongue. Maybe that prayer had some efficacy.
We returned inside and sure enough, they were on top of the old-timey cash register. Whew!
On our way to the bank we spied this fountain, a kid magnet if I ever saw one.
We entered the bank through the adjacent Chamber of Commerce, where we also took Hannah for a bathroom break. While I helped Hannah, Katie and Hailey held my keys and checkbook. I've GOT to buy a purse.
Inside the bank:
Inside the vault inside the bank:
We left the bank in time to arrive at the Brown Mansion, (again, there's a hyperlink) with about fifteen minutes to spare before the next tour, just enough time to eat a few bites at the picnic table under a shade tree on the grounds.
Katie and Hailey leisurely unloaded the lunches while I grabbed my checkbook, which contained the tickets I had purchased at the Dalton Museum. Except I couldn't find it. My checkbook that is. Everyone frantically reloaded the Tahoe and we tore out for the bank, hoping the checkbook would still be there.
Sure enough it was, but now we had an hour to kill until the next tour began at the mansion. I called my new friend, John, to determine where to find a park for playing and picnicking. On his recommendation we drove to Pfister Park, an excellent recommendation indeed.
As we packed into the Tahoe yet again, Hannah had her one and only meltdown of the day. Not too bad.
I could go on and on about the Brown Mansion. I've toured it at least four times, but this was the most enjoyable. The tour guide allowed Hailey into this chained-off room to play the piano. She also took us out onto the...what's it called...veranda? Terrace? I'll say "veranda." It's the upper porch/deck in the picture above. What a view!
Hannah snapped the picture below.
Hannah also took this picture. She and I sat on the main floor while the tour guide took Katie and Hailey through the basement. I didn't feel like taking that many stairs.
As I worked with this picture, I noticed the sign. Oh well.
This was our final stop. I HAD to buy a purse.
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